Scarred
by coatkindabrownish
Summary: As Selina and Bruce explore the streets of Gotham together, a silent menace stalks them from the shadows. They come to rely on each and grow closer than they thought possible, as they try and stay one step ahead of this enigmatic menace. Set some time after Ep 1.10. Rated M just in case later chapters turn darker...after all, this is Gotham.
1. Chapter 1

_My first fanfic! Would welcome any feedback that might help this newbie navigate the world of fan fiction/writing in general. _

_Just an opening chapter of course, more to come soon._

_N.B.: the main characters are not my own (OC excepted). Just borrowing them for a while._

It wasn't what she was used to. After years of making the streets of Gotham her own playground, having someone tagging along like this was putting her out of her comfort zone. But when the company was a cute as this, she didn't really mind that much. The young billionaire was also getting a little smarter when it came to navigating Gotham's less salubrious neighbourhoods.

When she had first taken him into the sprawling mass of alleys and tunnels that criss-crossed the city, fleeing the hit squad that was out to snag her, Bruce Wayne had been plainly out of his depth. She'd had to make him over into something more resembling a street kid like her, though there wasn't much she could do about that precious haircut!

But now the circumstances had changed. Now he was there at his own request, learning from her the skills she had acquired over the years. Skills that helped her survive, skills that helped her be almost invisible when she needed to be.

"Hey kid, you gotta learn not to drag your feet. I'd have thought your butler would've taught you to walk like a gentleman?"

"What's wrong with how I walk?"

"Nothing, as long as you don't mind every low life and nosey cop for three blocks knowing you're coming."

Cat jumped down from the dumpster she'd been perching on, and proceeded to show Bruce her technique. A soft footed yet effortlessly quick stride from the balls of her feet, covering the length of the short alley they currently occupied in seconds. He was entranced. Not just by her demonstration, but by Cat herself. How her whole body looked so graceful in motion. Her nickname was well earned. But more than that he was feeling something else, something from deep in his gut that made him uncomfortable , yet somehow on top of the world. He had a crush.

His moment of wonder was suddenly shattered by the sound of tyres spinning: a GPD patrol car slowly turned into the alley from the street. Cat grabbed Bruce and pulled him behind a parked panel van. She peeked over the passenger side door window , eyes fixed on the car as it rumbled past, making sure the occupants were as disinterested as she'd come to expect from Gotham's finest.

It pulled to a stop outside a door someway past them, which opened to a blast of steam and a smell of rice and noodles. A guy that looked to be the owner stepped out, smoking like chimney; short, overweight and nothing that even closely resembled a smile. He approached the passenger window of the patrol car, and after a few seconds of hushed conversation took a roll of bills from his apron pocket and handed them over to the cop. Some careful checking appeared to be done before the window rolled back up and the car slowly exited the far end of the alley, by the time Cat's gaze returned to the doorway, the owner had already disappeared.

Cautiously, Cat and Bruce emerged from behind the van. Whilst Cat scanned the alley to make sure they were not noticed, Bruce looked like he'd just watched the most realitstic cop movie he'd ever seen.

"That was a real shakedown, he was paying them protection money!" Bruce said, a little too loudly.

"Shhh, keep it down kid, do you want someone to hear?"

"But, that was awesome! Just like TV or a movie…"

"Can it will ya?. I think we should find somewhere else to practice, you're gonna get us in trouble mouthing off like that"

With that she motioned to Bruce to follow as she glided up a nearby fire escape, Bruce trailing behind somewhat less gracefully.

As they reached the roof three stories up, neither were aware of the figure following their every move from a concealed position on the opposite rooftop. The observer continued watching until they disappeared down the fire escape on the opposite side. Slowly, the figure moved out from the cover of the water tank and lit a cigarette which illuminated a face sporting a gory mixture of deep scars. After disposing of the spent match, the figure turned and headed for the roof access to the building's stairwell, all the while slowly turning the handle of a dagger in a gloved hand.


	2. Chapter 2

_UPDATE. _

_Thanks everyone for the feedback so far. All very welcome for a newbie like me. It'll all be helpful in coming chapters._

Angry outbursts were not uncommon in the bullpen of this precinct, especially from this particular detective. But when Harvey Bullock launched his computer keyboard into the brickwork above a young beat cop, even the more seasoned officers present raised an eyebrow.

"Where's Nygma?" roared Bullock.

Silence. Silence and a room full of furtive glances in the direction of the stairwell above them. Forensic technician Edward Nygma had been heading down the steps to discuss some DNA results with Det. Baines in Vice. However, on hearing the crash of plastic on brick he'd started to slowly back track. Too late. Bullock had spotted his prey and was eyeing him like a lion sizing up its next meal.

"Nygma. Get over here."

Those that had not already returned to their own business, watched with morbid anticipation as the doomed man descended the final few steps and padded nervously toward Bullock. Nygma stopped a few feet short of Bullock's desk. Or rather a few arms lengths.

"Detective?"

"Ed, did I not ask you to make sure this report was written so I could actually read it? In English? No unpronounceable chemicals, no names of cultures that sound like my takeaway order? Plain English, that I can actually understand and present to the judge in a way the doesn't make me sound like an idiot."

"Well, er, yes Detective, but please understand that the accuracy of the report depends on the facts being presented scientifically…."

"Ed! Focus! Judge Borens doesn't give a crap what the chemical name for this drug was or the Latin name for the goddamn Fungus…"

"Fungi. There were more than one constituent species involved"

"Whatever! I just need to know if this drug was made from these ingredients, in this lab, by this asshole."

"I see. I'm sure I can rewrite this in more, normal, language."

"Thank you Ed. Wasn't so hard was it"

With that ominous drop in volume and flick of his hand in the direction of the Forensics lab, Bullock dismissed Edward Nygma form his court.

The report on the bust wasn't actually that important to obtaining the search warrant. Bullock knew that Judge Borens would issue the warrant regardless, he always did. Providing the right incentive was offered. In this case a bottle of 12 year old MacAllen. But Harvey had to be seen to be filing the right paperwork, to be crossing all the t's, dotting all the I's. He just needed the warrant to search the building in which the basement lab was located. He didn't give a rat's ass about the lab, that was vice's problem. He just needed to get into the super's office on the first floor, or more specifically the safe located therein.

That safe should be home to the evidence he needed on a serial armed robbery case he was working. Working alone he might add. Ever since Jim Gordon had been forced out he'd been expecting to be assigned some snot-nosed rookie straight out of uniform. But so far, nothing. Almost like Capt. Essen was making Bullock work twice as hard, probably to keep him from poking into the same business that got Gordon canned. Well, for now, she had nothing to fear. Harvey had nobody to palm the meaningless paperwork off to so he'd have to do it himself. Better get back to it. It was at this point he remembered where his keyboard was.

Rather than grab a trash can an clear up the pieces, Bullock moved down the bullpen toward the corridor that would lead to the computer nerds. He was almost clear of the pen when a voice called out.

"Hey Harvey, you gotta minute?"

Bullock turned to see the familiar aging face of Marty Quinn, an old colleague from his days in uniform.

"Hey Marty, long time no see. How's life in the 12th?"

"The usual. All show and no tell. At least with Falcone in charge down there. But there is this one that's just turned up, thought it would set a few alarm bells ringing."

Quinn proceeded to open the file he was holding, revealing crime scene photos and statements from a fresh homicide. What caught Bullock's eye immediately was the wound on the victim: a single stab wound to the heart, and etched into the victim's skin around it, the unmistakable shape of a dove. "Aw crap."

Bullock took the file from Quinn and sat himself at the nearest desk. He held the open file in front of him, but was barely looking at the pictures inside. He was staring right through them, back through the years to the night he first saw this mark.

He and Quinn had not long been partnered together and were working nights from the 12th. It was one of the city's quieter beats. Just a few blocks, mostly offices and bodegas. The only bars there were off limits, strictly the territory of Falcone's men. So it was unusual to get a call to an alley behind one of Falcone's establishments, the Half Moon. When they arrived a group of patrons were standing around in a semi-circle, all looking white as a sheet, and not for once not just because of drink. At their feet lay a young man, early twenties, evidently homeless. His jacket was opened, and his shirt was matted with blood. Quinn knelt beside him, and using his gloved hand opened his unbuttoned shirt to reveal the horrific sight beneath. A single deep stab wound, directly into the heart. And traced around it, not as deep and apparently post mortem, the shape of dove.

After clearing the gawkers, Bullock had called it in. He hadn't even considered where they were, calling in a possible homicide outside a bar run by Falcone was usually a sure fire way to get fired. Or, just as often, a way to join the victim on their way to the morgue. But on this particular night, there was no interference from Falcone's lieutenants. For once, homicide detectives were actually allowed within half mile of Falcone real estate.

The investigation however, was no lesson in diligent police work. Assigned to the local duo of McFadden and Carlton, it was doomed from the start. A dead homeless guy wasn't exactly going to bother two of the 12th's most corrupt veterans. It was given the briefest of walkthrough's before they chalked it up to a dispute between two local bums. A random selection of homeless men were swiftly rounded up, and as soon as they found a knife hidden on one of them, they had their man. It mattered not that the "guilty" man was virtually blind and could barely hold a knife or even the pen used for his confession, without shaking involuntarily. He had a knife in his possession and was unlucky enough to be picked up within three blocks of the scene. After the briefest of trials he was despatched to Iron Heights to be quickly forgotten.

And officer Bullock hadn't given any of this much thought either after he called it in that night. Not until six years later when, now a detective, he and Dix had been called to the docks to find another victim. A teenage girl this time, but the same stab wound and the same dove marking, etched carefully into the skin around the wound. This time Bullock was in no mood to let it go as easily as McFadden and Carlton. He and Dix went through every group of homeless in the area, no mean feat in the docks, talking to everyone who could string a sentence together, willingly or not. But no-one would say a thing, all claim to have seen and heard nothing. Neither he nor Dix bought it. But it was no surprise. If you saw bad things happening in Falcone's docks, you kept quiet. The killer knew this, he was counting on it.

The detectives kept at it for weeks, again with seemingly no interference from Falcone's crew despite it being in the middle of his turf. It seemed the Don himself was as eager as anyone to see what the GCPD would find. But as time went on it was clear that this killer was a ghost. No witnesses, no forensic clues, nothing other than that motif. But it was so generic there was nothing concrete to tie it too. Eventually, Bullock and Dix had to let it cool off, they had other cases to work. Finally it became just another Gotham cold case. Until now.

The dove marking was unmistakable. The same curve to the wings, the slightly distended body. Again the victim was homeless, a war veteran by the look of the tattoos. Found three blocks from Arkham.

"Just when you thought it had gone cold huh?" asked Quinn.

"Anything on this yet? Witnesses, forensics? "

"No witnesses, and our forensics guys are still on scene. It's fresh, didn't want to hang around bringing this to you after I saw the birdie"

Bullock couldn't take his eyes of the dove. The small knick for the eye seemed to be staring into him. Challenging him, taunting him. "I'll take it'

"What? Hey I was showing you this as a courtesy Harvey. To let you know before it got into the press. This is my case."

"Not anymore, me and Dix started this and I'm damn sure gonna finish it. You wanna help? Fine. I could do with a partner right now."

Quinn considered arguing the point. He already had a partner of his own, but that didn't matter. If Harvey Bullock wanted the case back, he was going to get it.

"Alright alright, you got it buddy. But this will still be run from my desk. You're not gonna get the collar all to yourself."

"Works for me, I just wanna get the sonofabitch this time."

With that Bullock gathered up the file and motioned for Quinn to follow. "you said your forensics guys were still on scene? Tell them I'm sending another pair of eyes, well, two pairs", he grinned.

Quinn looked puzzled.

Bullock asked: "You ever heard of Ed Nygma?"


End file.
